


Emma Swan and the No-Good, Horrible, Very-Bad Day

by natascha_ronin



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Bad Days, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2019-03-09 19:18:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13488084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natascha_ronin/pseuds/natascha_ronin
Summary: For anyone who had a bad day.





	Emma Swan and the No-Good, Horrible, Very-Bad Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ohmakemeahercules](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmakemeahercules/gifts), [xhookswenchx (ReluctantPrincess)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReluctantPrincess/gifts).



Emma Swan is having a no-good, horrible, very bad day. 

It’s bad enough that she couldn’t sleep last night (damn anxiety making her toss and turn), and even the little bit of sleep she got was enough for cortisol to kick in this morning, but she’s running late because her alarm was set for 6:45 _p.m_. instead of _a.m_. and she jolted awake at 7:23. No time for a shower or coffee, she throws her hair up in a ponytail and tosses on a hoodie and jeans over her cami, scrubbing deodorant liberally over her armpits. She figures she can still make it in time to class, but she can’t print her paper from her laptop because her wi-fi is on the fritz. So, she spends ten minutes rummaging around behind her couch through dusty USB cords and resetting her router until she gets it right, cussing Belkin and the cable company and fucking Apple so loudly the people down the street probably hear her. She gets the paper printed, ignoring the blinking “empty cartridge” warning, snatches her satchel and nearly bowls over her neighbor in her haste to run downstairs. 

She yells a frantic, “Sorry!” and tries not to trip while she’s fleeing the scene. 

She barely hears him yell, “Wait!” as she runs out the door. She probably dropped something, but she doesn’t have time to even turn around and flirt with the hot Englishman today.

She forgets about the traffic at this time of the morning, opting for driving instead of taking the T, and a fifteen minute drive turns into thirty. She’s practically in tears, her jaw hurting from clenching it so hard, shaking as she slides into her seat at 8:12. Her Criminal Evidence professor rolls his eyes and taps his wristwatch as he drones on about the chain of evidence. He’s already collected the papers, and she begs him after class to take hers, opting to tell him the truth: she was up late finishing the paper after tracking down a skip so she can pay rent three days late this month instead of twelve. He reluctantly accepts it after warning her that it will be at least ten points off for being late. 

“But –“ 

He holds up a hand. “No buts, dearie. Late papers come with a price.”

 

Emma Swan is having a no-good, horrible, very bad day. 

Emma Swan is having the worst day.

After classes are finished, she rewards herself with a hot chocolate from the café in the campus bookstore, and goes to check her phone to see if her boss has her check from last night’s bust, but she must have left it at home on the floor when she took it out of her pocket to fix her router. She sighs. She needs to go into the office over in Cambridge to do paperwork, and her apartment is all the way up in Revere. She walks out to where her car is parked only it isn’t there. In her frantic haste to make it to class, she’s parked in a reserved spot in the garage and her car has been towed. A sleek older Mercedes with the license plate EVL QE3N is sitting neatly in its place. She resists the urge to run her keys down its pinstriped side and holds back tears as she heads to the admin office to call the tow company. Her few friends are all programmed into her phone, so she can’t remember their numbers to call them.

 

Emma Swan is having a no-good, horrible, very bad day. 

Emma Swan is having the worst day.

Emma Swan wants to throw shit. 

There’s a route 9 delay on the T, and then she’s walking from the train stop to the tow lot in Southie. The office is really just a window with a guy sitting in a box, so she stands outside in the cold for fifteen minutes while they locate her car. The release fee is $90, but the towing fee is another $80, and she has just a little over $150 in her checking account, so she’s biting her lip as her card is running through, knowing she’s going to be forking over $30 for an overdraft fee. 

Her card is declined. 

She curses a blue streak and the lot attendant yells at her, so she screams back at him, crying. 

He slams the window in her face, telling her, “Come back when you got the money.”

She walks two blocks down the frontage road, arms crossed, shaking. She has snot running down her face, so she reaches in her backpack to grab a tissue, and, rummaging around. Her fingers close around something hard and plastic: her phone. 

She calls her boss and tells him the situation, and in true David Nolan style, he drives down to the tow lot, and lets Emma sit in the warm cab while he negotiates with the attendant. 

She insists on buying him lunch, and he slides her paycheck to her across the formica tabletop. 

“I’ll pay you back for the impound release as soon as this clears.” 

He waves her off. “Just buy my wife’s drinks the next girls’ night out. We’ll call it even.”

She snorts. “That’s hardly fair. You know Mary Margaret. She gets a buzz from licking the rim of the glass.”

Dave chuckles. “That she does. Just consider it a favor between friends, then.”

Emma gives him a tired smile. She’s lived in Boston for a little over a year, now. David took a chance on a fairly inexperienced bail bondsperson. She tries not to let him down, even though she knows that eventually, when she finishes her degree, she’ll have to leave his employ to work for the police department. But David and his wife are her friends. They’ll understand, maybe even cheer her on. It’s nice to have friends, even if they’re new.

 

Emma Swan is in pain. 

She was feeling refreshed from the pep talk from her boss at lunch, so she took what she thought would be a quick job in Telegraph Hill. It ends up being a six block chase, dodging cars in traffic and garbage cans being thrown at her, scraping her knee on the pavement, before her perp kicks her in the ribs while she thinks he’s down. She chases him another three blocks before he gets tired, heading him off in Marine Park. She gives him his own scrape on the sidewalk as she holds his head down with her leg while she cuffs him, letting the cops pick him up since her car is a long walk in the other direction. 

She watches the sun set over Boston while she phones in her catch, David insisting that she take a few days off to rest. It would be a relaxing walk back to her bug if she weren’t cold, and hadn’t had a stressful day on top of an adrenaline-fueled hour. She’s beat by the time she reaches her car (still there, thankfully), her side aching from where she was kicked. She closes her eyes and rests her head against the seat for a few minutes, catching her breath while the engine heats up the interior of her car. 

The drive home is peaceful, but each time she shifts gears she feels a stabbing pain in her ribs. By the time she reaches her apartment building, she’s pretty sure she’s got a few bruised ones, and she’s hoping they’re not broken. She hobbles up the stairs to the third floor, hearing the building door open and close behind her. The uninjured person makes their way up quickly, and she pauses so they can go around her when she hears them come up behind her. She leans against the railing.

“Rough day?” 

She turns around, seeing her neighbor in the dim light of the stairwell. He’s got a guitar case slung over one shoulder, a look of concern on his (ridiculously handsome) face. 

Emma gives a wry smile. “So you’ve noticed.”

She’s definitely noticed Killian Jones from apartment 3C. He’s impossible to miss with his striking blue eyes and devil-may-care features. She’s always liked guys in leather jackets, and his wears him well, with his dark scruff and darker jeans. As if his looks and his English accent weren’t sexy enough, he’s always a gentleman when she sees him. They usually only manage small talk and short conversations, but she knows he’s a musician because she hears his (lovely) voice and guitar through her bedroom wall whenever her closet door is open. He’s even invited her to see his band a few times, but between work and community college, she’s rarely had the time.

He gives her a sympathetic look. “Aye, I could tell from the looks of you this morning.” 

Emma’s eyes go wide and her mouth drops. “Oh, I am so sorry I bumped into you and then ran off.”

But he shakes his head. “No worries, love. All’s forgiven.”

“Thanks.”

He gestures ahead of them. “May I accompany you up the stairs, then?”

“Sure.” She turns to finish hobbling up the last flight.

But Killian pulls tight on the strap of his guitar with his left hand, and holds out his right arm. “Allow me.” 

Emma takes it with her left arm, leaning on him the rest of the way upstairs. He smells like leather and sandalwood, and every time she looks over and catches his eye, he blushes and gives her a shy smile. 

_Is he flirting?_

They stop at her door.

“Thanks again, Killian.” Emma looks up at him from under her lashes. She is definitely not flirting. 

“You’re welcome, Emma.” Killian scratches behind his ear and tilts his head, those sea-blue eyes staring back at her. 

It’s been a shitty day. Maybe it doesn’t have to be a shitty evening. 

“I was gonna order some pizza…or maybe Chinese.” She points her thumb at her apartment door. “You wanna join me?”

Killian gapes at her.

“—Unless, of course, you’ve got other plans,” she waves her hand in front of her and steps back, “Or you’re not hungry.”

He steps forward and grabs her hand midair. “I’m famished.”

“Good.” She smiles. Her first real smile of the day. 

“It’s just, um…” Killian looks down, his cheeks red, “I’ve been trying to figure out a way to ask you out for months.” His voice goes up at the end, and he chuckles, clearly embarrassed. 

Emma’s taken aback. “Really? Wow.” _Great, Emma, so eloquent_. “Well, how about we just start with take-out and we take it from there?”

He shrugs. “Sure. I’d love to hear about your day.”

She laughs, clutching at her sore ribs. “Well,” she turns and slides her key into the deadbolt, “it can only get better from here, I hope.”


End file.
